There Once was a King
by ria95
Summary: Four times Thorin didn't and once he was lost. One -shot companion piece to my story 'She dreams of Golden Hope'. Thorin/OC I own nothing but my original character and any original story-line. Please read and review.


**AN- This is a one shot companion Piece to my Story 'She dreams of Golden Hope'. As such it Features Thorin/Laurel Pairing. I suddenly got the Inspiration to write this Piece after reading a few five times... didn't and one time... did. I normally don't enjoy one-shots, but I decided to try my Hand on it. I just want to say that the Scenarios described in the one shot do not influence or sway the actual Story in any way. You could almost describe this companion Piece as completely Independent from 'She dreams of Golden Hope', except for Major plot Points such as characters and their personality and their backstories. You could view some of the Scenarios as outtakes from the original Story, but there are not Spoilers ahead I assure you. Scenarios which seem to be further in the future than the actual Story has progressed are most likely not going to Show the same fate I have in store for 'SDOGH'. I hope you enjoy and Review. This is quite angsty, but tell me what you thought.**

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_~"Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take. Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged."- William Shakespeare~_

He sat on the damp boulder and with careful precision he passed the whetstone, that was warm from being buried amidst his supplies, over the blade's edge. The sharp sound of the whetstone grinding against the steel of 'Orcist' filled his ears and broke the silence that had descended over him. The noise grated at his ears and was accompanied by the intelligible sound of jovial conversation that was distanced. He kept his eyes on the steel of the sword he had acquired in the Troll's cave which shone as the light of the late afternoon sun hit upon it. He closed his eyes as a particularly bright ray was reflected off the surface of the immaculate blade.

Begrudgingly, he had to agree with the wizard: This was indeed a fine blade. Perhaps not as pragmatic and commodious as the strident, salient weapons of dwarfish manufacture. The asset of this sword lay in its elegant and distinguished silhouette with its curved edge and the buoyancy and practicality of the light steel. He had always known that the elvish people were rather vain, relying more on outer appearances rather than efficiency. His grandfather had often complained about the elves' narcissistic spirit, whenever King Thandruil and his envoy arrived in Erebor. His mouth twisted into a contemptuous sneer as he thought about the man whom he held almost equally responsible for the loss of Erebor as Smaug. The elf who had sworn fealty to his grandfather only to deny them assistance when they needed it most.

He felt the urge to throw aside the sword, which had been manufactured by those rapacious and deceptive individuals. Yet he could not. Even though he knew that perhaps it would not be much use to him in the rowdy duels that dwarves often got involved in, especially when his nephews had once again indulged in one too many ales in the tavern and he would have to break up the tiff between his nephews and other equally inebriated individuals, there was a certain avaricious satisfaction in possessing the sword, in possessing a weapon which had been of great pride to the elvish race if Gandalf's reverent tone was anything to go by. There was a certain malicious satisfaction in knowing that it would cause the elves resentment; a dwarf possessing such a fine blade of theirs, someone from the race they shared a mutual repulsion with. His lips contorted into a triumphant smirk, as he passed the whetstone over the tip of the sword for the last time and then raised the blade to inspect it.

He looked to his side to see Dwalin sheathing his dagger with his constant grim mask on his face. There was no conversation between the man and if Thorin had not become used to Dwalin's reticent, yet assertive presence he would have imagined himself to be alone. He preferred it- this companionable, meaningful silence. He much preferred it to his nephew's constant discourse and their need to fill every silence with clever and at times perhaps not as astute remarks. Thorin found that as he grew older he could not muster the patience for it and though he cared for his nephews deeply, them being the only family he had left after Dis' death one decade ago, he had early on in his education of them asserted his position as the superior, silent tutor who would not tolerate meaningless yak. And they had eventually grasped their uncle's preference for quietude.

Yet as he studied Dwalin's almost embittered sneer and his hardened and rancorous appearance, Thorin realised that he would be lying to himself if he didn't admit to the occasional pangs of nostalgia he felt as he recalled Dwalin's former nature before that fateful day that would have numerous more consequences than them losing their home; the day which would bring about changes that they could have never envisioned. He looked at Dwalin's hostile appearance with the faded tattoos on his shaved forehead and his hard, algid eyes and he remembered Balin's brother who had only been a few years younger than him, but had always insisted on intruding in his sword fighting sessions with Balin, much to the latter's chagrin. And much to Thorin's mirth. He had grown fond of the young boy who had cultivated a grudging respect for him and recognized his authority reluctantly, due to his obstinacy and unwillingness to recognize any authority figure. In his youth, Dwalin had been hardy, almost savage in his behaviour. Thorin assumed that that had not changed- Dwalin was forceful and menacing on a battle field, one of the most skilled warriors Thorin could hope to have at his side.

Yet he had changed because in his youth Dwalin had been hardy in matters concerning his amusement, his mirth. Thorin was reminded of the several times after evening had fallen when Dwalin would intrude his chamber, while he sat at his desk and studied, insisting that Thorin would accompany him to tavern. At first he had insisted that he only did this because he was yet too young to enter the tavern and indulge in ale. Yet soon Dwalin had come of age and he still came to Thorin every evening and tried to convince the reticent prince to go out drinking with him. And each time he had been successful, he had always engaged Thorin in a meaningless dalliance with a buxom tavern wench and the night would end with Thorin leaving behind a few golden coins as favour and rapidly exiting the chamber of the woman before her protests to his departure could escalate in any manner.

Dwalin had been a jovial young dwarf, one of the few individuals that Thorin would consider a friend. Yet Dwalin had never been the same after Erebor had been seized by the fire drake. And Thorin missed his old, jubilant friend who had always taunted him for his reticence. But Thorin would never openly admit it.

He couldn't. He didn't have the right to. For he had changed as well.

He had always been solemn and responsible. Balin had often taunted him, saying that he behaved centuries older than his actual age making Thorin appear like an adult dwarf when, according to his age, he had yet to enter adolescence. And when he had entered adulthood, his old tutor and scribe had taunted him saying that he was even older than Balin himself. But when Erebor had been taken, his already existing sense of responsibility had been magnified inordinately. And it had obliterated any youth and jollity that might have been left within Thorin. And he had become bitter and angry. He had become so angry, especially after the elves' betrayal. Especially after his uncle Náin had refused the dwarves of Erebor any assistance after they had fallen, when his grandfather had grovelled for help and sanctuary only to receive a denial from the dwarves of the Iron Hill. He had been so angry when the dwarves of the Iron Hill had extinguished any connection between them- refusing them shelter, splitting Thorin's betrothal to the princess. Though he assumed that she had been more grieved at the split than he had. Náli had always been fond of him, ever since their early childhood while he had been more indifferent. He had only agreed to the betrothal, because his grandfather had insisted upon it. But he imagined that with time he would have grown fond of her. That she would have been a good queen and that their connection would have been useful.

He had changed. Even if he had wanted to become a more jovial fellow, he would be unable to do so now.

He was shaken from his ramifications as the sound of pealing and rumbling laughter arose from somewhere beside him. He looked up to find his nephews at their usual antics. Fili and Kili were telling one of their many tales of bravery in a cocky voice with their chests puffed out and arrogant, proud expressions on their faces. They were exuberant in their relaying of their tale as they acted out select scenes and gestured wildly with their hands. All the while, _she _was sat before them with her knees drawn up to her chest and a sparkle of mirthful wonder in her impossibly blue eyes. And occasionally she would bit her lower, pouty lip whenever the boys' story caused her smile to widen.

He sneered in distaste as he observed Kili and saw the affectionate smile on the young lad's face. He had long realised the blatant affection his nephews held towards the girl. And he recognized them for what they were. Ever since Kili had come of age one decade ago, they were incessantly at the tavern spending every evening there and frolicking with the attractive tavern wenches. And Thorin had indulged them, as long as it had not affected his mentor-ship of Fili and grooming him to be his predecessor, similar to the way Thror had done to him. He had allowed their several dalliances with the tavern servants because he had seen them as meaningless and shallow. Yet as much as he wished he could, he could not describe his nephews' attraction towards Laurel as such. Perhaps it had started that way. Perhaps her obvious beauty had been the first thing to ensnare his nephews' attention. It was not uncommon for young dwarfish men to frivol with women of other races. It was rare that young dwarves were attracted to female dwarves, Thorin thought, because they lacked that certain femininity and delicacy of feature that Laurel possessed in abundance with her warmth, her softness and her small, curvy slender body. Thorin assumed that it had been her satiny features that had first entranced his nephews after they had become so used to the sharp and rough features of dwarven women.

Thorin knew that his nephews' fascination with the girl ran deeper than simply her allure. He knew that it was the constant kindness and loving actions she displayed so frequently that astounded his nephews and caused the tenderness that they felt toward her to only deepen. It astounded them. It astounded him.

However, he could not understand his nephews' feelings towards her. She seemed almost too delicate, too soft, too fragile. And she was sad. Even when she was with Master Baggins and he tenderly embraced her and in response she smiled contently, Thorin could still see the melancholic undertone in her deep blue orbs.

And Master Baggins. The hobbit definitely held the affections Kili and Fili so longed after. She loved Bilbo, blatantly, and even if it had been revealed that their relationship was more platonic in nature than they all had previously assumed, it still did not change the fact that he would always come first in her regard. Steadfastly ignoring the pang he had felt in his chest as that thought had ghosted through his mind, Thorin knew that his nephews were bound to be broken-hearted, because she would return with Master Baggins to her hobbit hole after the quest's end. She would grow old with her cousin and one day when Thorin was old and his beard was even whiter than Balin's and his bones ached constantly, he would receive news from the Shire that Laurel Arya Took had passed away peacefully in her sleep.

And he would never see her again. After the end of the quest, he would never see her again.

He did not understand her. No matter how long he would muster her, try to figure her out, he could not possibly understand her. This girl who had not seemed wary of them despite the fact that she had probably never left the Shire and never seen a dwarf before. This girl who was blindingly trusting, to such an extent that at times he wished to take her by the arms and shake her for her foolish trust in them and for her innocence. Because she was bound to be disappointed. Because they... he... was bound to do something that would make her suspicious of him, that would shatter her trust, that would cause her to look upon him with disappointment. He didn't understand why she was so freely kind, why he thought her heart to be pure even after having decided after decades of living in exile that kindness only sprung from pursuing intents and from selfishness. He didn't understand her kindness when he couldn't possibly find a reason for it.

And he didn't understand why he felt his heart quicken and warmth fill his chest whenever he laid eyes upon her.

Thunder cracked above him like the mighty groan of a monstrous creature and it was soon followed by a sudden deluge of rain that fell upon them. Thorin looked up at the sky puzzled for it had previously been clear, only to be replaced by a grey, dreary front.

He rose quickly and started calling out orders to his company, who seemed equally alarmed and taken aback by the sudden change of weather. He raised his voice to be overheard by the drumming sound of rain, as the moisture impacted on the ground forcefully causing a great raucous. Efficiently, they packed up their camp and quickly moved eastwards toward a cavern that they had passed by earlier during their day's march.

After both him and Dwalin had ensured the safety of the interior of the cave and had warranted its suitability as the company's resting place for tonight, they once more proceeded to set up camp.

While Bombur was busy cooking the stew over the recently lit fire, he was knelt before a log upon which his pack was perched in an attempt to dry his things. Yet even as he went through the entirety of the contents he could not find a single piece of fabric that was not saturated with rain and would effectively serve to dry his possessions that were drenched with water. Exasperated, Thorin shrugged off his overcoat and passed an antagonized hand through the wet locks of his hair, before emptying his pack and putting his possessions to dry. His tunic clung wetly to his upper body and he searched in the depth of his bag for a dry one as replacement.

"Master Oakenshield," he heard a soft voice state behind him and immediately his spine straightened and he tensed. He looked over his shoulders to see her standing behind him, her lips in a friendly and beatific smile. For a few seconds, he studied her over his shoulders before he turned towards her. Her hair was loose and hung wetly down her back. She had scooped it back, so that her face was bared and her soft features were even more pronounced. Thorin struggled to keep his eyes off her blouse which also had been hit by the rain and now clung to her soft curves. He exhaled shakily as he allowed his eyes to pass over her feminine features for a few seconds and he felt a burning warmth rise in his chest that signalled his desire for her.

He quickly composed himself when he saw her handing him a large piece of clothes that was dry and warm. He looked down in puzzlement at the piece of fabric that he held in his hands after having taken it off her. In response to his furrowed brows, he heard her chuckle lowly before she stated: "It's to dry your things. I was able to rescue mine and Bilbo's towels before they had a chance to be drenched by rain. I hung it over the fire." With a last small smile and a nod of her head, she turned on her heels and returned to her cousin who was busy drying their possessions with a similar piece of fabric. And he was left behind dumbstruck.

He did not understand her incessant kindness towards him. Normally if one had shown as much kindness as she had done towards him, towards anyone, Thorin would have been highly suspicious and questioned their motives. For he had learned that any altruism an individual showed towards another was due to their need, their self-crafted goals, it was in pursuit of their agenda. Yet he did not know why she continued to show him forbearance. The profit her and her cousin would receive as remuneration for the quest was not the reason and it did not seem to interest her as much as it did him- the gold, the riches. She scarcely seemed to care for them as she always seemed indifferent to Gloin's ostentatious descriptions of Erebor's riches. He would have normally been highly suspicious and wary of anyone who showed him such cordiality. Yet he could not muster any such wariness with her.

Not when she stood before him with her sad blue eyes shining with an affection that left him breathless.

He didn't understand why she would be so kind to him, especially when all he had shown her was heed and a gruff lack of sympathy. When he had been so unkind and prejudiced towards both her and her cousin, deeming them unworthy and incapable of undertaking the company's quest. He didn't understand why she would show him such sympathy, especially after she had seemed so riled by his lack of cordiality towards Master Baggins and her when he had arrived in their hobbit hole.

He didn't understand because he was greedy and ungenerous and he would most certainly not have shown her the same kindness.

He did not want to think or understand the momentary reaction he'd had when he'd internally declared he'd never show her such kindness. So he banished the nagging voice that whispered in his mind's ear that he would have wrapped her in his overcoat had he even seen a hint of a tremble in her delicate form.

* * *

Night had fallen a few hours ago and his company sat assembled around the fire that Gloin had kindled earlier. He sat beside Balin and pensively smoked his pipe with something akin to contentment, as he sat silently and listened to the jovial and overlapping voices of his kin, as they conversed about their lives back home. He sat back in indulgent silence as he listened to the affectionate voices of the members of his company as the nostalgically voiced their longing for their return. He was silent. Firstly because he did not long to share such private thoughts with all here assembled and did not think that he could match Bofur's or Bombur's joviality, as they discussed their lives in the Blue Mountains. Secondly, there was not much to tell either. He had just settled down in the Blue Mountains a decade ago when his youngest nephew had come of age. Before he had wandered and searched for a true home for his once-mighty people. He rued his small chamber at the Blacksmith he was employed in and the hard hay bed he slept in nightly. For so long, he had yearned to find accommodations for his people. Something that was not poor lodgings in exile. Yet he had been unsuccessful and had been forced to settle in the Blue Mountains after Dis' death so that he would be close to the last relatives he had.

He listened contently as his company told stories of their families and their homes and he could see the yearning on various of their faces. He listened as Gloin talked about his beautiful wife and told them of his young son Gimli, who had just learned how to forge a sharp dagger before his father had departed on his quest and who gave him the greatest pride, for Gloin was assured that his son would grow up to be a proud, capable dwarf with the longest beard and the greatest resistance to ale.

With an undetectable smile, he listened as Dwalin talked about the young serving maid he had encountered in a tavern in the Blue Mountain. And he could see a slight softening to his old friend's harsh features as he described her hair that was like flowing gold down her back and her brown eyes that were warmer than a summer's noon. And he was glad to see the semblance of bliss his friend had supposedly found as was Balin who always worried over his younger brother.

At one point in the evening Master Baggins, encouraged by the slight amount of ale Bofur had persuaded him to indulge in and by his nephews' and Bofur's insistence, had relayed a tale of his childhood. He had seen the wide-eyed look of awkward humiliation on Laurel's face. Indeed Master Baggins had told them of an incident one decade ago when the son of a certain Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had been taunting him for the embroidery box he had purchased for his neighbour's daughter. The hobbit had assumed that it had been for Master Baggins himself. Laurel who had been returning from the store with Bilbo had grown increasingly chagrined at the hobbit's mocking and eventually had heatedly bid him to stop mocking her cousin. When he'd cockily asked her what she would do about it, she'd pushed him into the stream and then with her head raised proudly, she'd picked up the embroidery box and left.

Delighted, he'd resisted the urge to chuckle as he heard Master Baggins affectionately describe his cousin's antics, while she had distributed the bowls of stew with slight embarrassment. "Delightful, you are a fiery lass, Miss Laurel." Bofur had exclaimed and patted her on the shoulder when she'd passed by him. She had looked at the slightly inebriated dwarf and had shaken her head stating: "I assure you, Master Bofur. I take no pride from my actions." She had sat down beside her cousin and he'd then explained: "Yes, Mungo had a similar reaction to you Bofur. He's been pursuing Laurel incessantly since then." She had shaken her head and rolled her eyes in exasperation.

"I don't blame him." he'd heard Fili mutter lowly beside him while looking at the girl with something akin to admiration in his eyes and Thorin's grip had tightened around the shaft of his pipe. In response to Fili's words, the girl had looked up with her eyebrows furrowed and a slightly confused look on her face. Bofur's eyes had flickered to both him and Fili briefly, looking at them worriedly when he'd answered her silent question: "Oh, it's nothing lass. It's just surprising that you are not engaged yet. The lads like a bonny face and yours is a picture." She had been mustering Bofur during his explanation and then she had looked down and her cheeks had turned pink and for a moment Thorin had thought about raspberries on cream.

She had shaken her head and with a small smile she had stated: "I need no man to ensure my happiness." She had looked up at the end of her words and her conviction had been emphasized by the decided look on her face.

"Except for the man in your dreams." Bilbo had muttered lowly, almost unconsciously, his judgement clouded by the unusual amount of ale he had drank this evening. Seconds later, his head had snapped up and his eyes had widened and he had looked apologetically to his friend, who was looking at him incredulously and with a hurt gaze.

He didn't understand the caustic feeling that had taken a seat in his stomach when Master Baggins had mentioned this nameless man Laurel supposedly dreamt about nightly. He didn't understand his sudden chagrin and the enraging sense of apathy and his resentment towards this unnamed name he had never met. He observed her as she stubbornly kept her gaze fixed to the contents of her bowl. His nephews, who barely concealed their jealousy, took no heed of the girl's obvious shame and kept asking her about it. Annoyed by their lack of consideration and fuelled by his unwillingness to hear her speak a word about this man, he exclaimed exasperatedly in Khuzdul: _"Quit making a fool of yourselves before the girl."_ In response, his nephews had looked up at him alertedly but they had heeded his demands.

Just like him, she had kept noticeably reticent during the evening while his company around her had indulged in joviality and cheer. He'd also noted her frostiness toward the hobbit who had tried to lie an arm around her shoulders at one point, only to have her decidedly shake it off. Yet as the dwarves around her had started to regal tales of their home lives he had seen her tense posture relax and eventually when Gloin had described his young lad's ability to hold three jugs of ale at such a young age, an achievement of his son he prided himself in, he'd seen her smile affectionately.

Yet he'd looked away as he'd heard Gloin aggrandize his son. He was painfully aware and reminded that his father had never prided himself in Thorin to such an extent. Any achievement of his part had only been viewed as ordinary by both his Thrain and Thror, anything he'd achieved and boasted about had only been described as his duty by his grandfather. And this had tormented Thorin during his infancy. His inability to raise any recognition in the two people, who had been his idols, whom he had wanted to impress so greatly. He had taken great efforts to become the dwarf that both Thror and Thrain had expected, had demanded to become. A man worth his station. And he had done it to earn his grandfather's and his father's pride, yet he'd been unsuccessful. Once more, he'd been unable to complete what he had set out to do when both patriarchal figures in his life had been cruelly taken from him. They had wanted to reclaim Erebor and Thorin would fulfil their wishes. He'd be tormented by the memory of them both for as long as he didn't.

Eventually, the company had started chanting an old ballad about a handsome young lady and a man who wished to be true to her despite the distance that separated them. Their rumbling and throaty singing was led by Bofur with his heavily accented yet melodious voice.

_Sweet noble heart, I am forbidden to ever see you again, your fair sweet face which put me on the path of love. _Thorin looked up and his eyes were drawn across the assembly to see her looking at Bofur with a small smile and her cheeks rosy with silent joy. The singing of his kin was accompanied by the quickened thumping of his heart in his chest.

_Sweet noble heart, pretty lady, I am wounded by love so that I am sad and pensive, and have no joy or mirth, for to you, my sweet companion, I have thus given my heart. _Thorin observed how Bofur turned towards Laurel and started serenading her. The caustic sensation in the pit of his stomach once more returned when he saw Bofur take her small hand and cordially kiss her knuckles. He lowered his head and pursed his lips in distaste.

Her small hands. _So small._ He was sure that he could fully encase them in his own. They were pink and soft- a lady's hand and he wondered how they would feel against his calloused skin. How it would feel to have her soft fingers trail against his skin, leaving a feverish path in their wake. He wondered how it would feel to seize her hands and turn them and then press his lips to the inside of her delicate wrist. How it would feel to reverently kiss her palm. He studied them transfixedly and he felt his gaze soften as he cocked his head. They were smaller than the rain's. And as she came to collect his bowl, he allowed himself the indulgence to have his fingers trail across hers, caress_ them_, for a few seconds longer than necessary. And he wondered what he had expected- if he had expected them to be cold and perhaps fleeting and unattainable like she seemed at times. But they were warm and firm in his grasp and soft like clouds. He felt her fingers twitch as his trailed over hers, almost as if she was a wild animal and was testing the mercy of a human hand.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Balin scrutinizing him puzzled and he immediately composed himself. He masked his face with indifference, angered at himself that he had allowed himself to loose his composure in such a manner.

The night had moved on with the continued joviality of his company and Thorin had been content to watch the carelessness of his kin. To see them indulge in a few moments of nonchalance. Tomorrow, they would go on. Tomorrow their sense of responsibility would return. Tomorrow their sense of duty would once more sit heavily upon their shoulders and crush them. Tonight they would allow themselves to repose. Tonight they would momentarily forget about the importance of the quest they were undertaking. They would forget the consequences were they to fail. He would allow himself to momentarily forget about Smaug. They would forget the implications were they to win. Thorin would forget to constant danger they were under, he would forget all obstacles he was yet to encounter.

His nephews had started boasting about their previous conquests, cockily priding themselves in their youth and their dalliances with the opposite gender. And eventually with an excited gleam in their eyes and bright red cheeks from the ale, they addressed Laurel: "What would it take to win your heart, fair maiden?" She had been reclined her head on her cousin's shoulder, apparently having forgiven him for his previous offence, and she had looked up at them and with a confused smile she'd opened her mouth to reply. Yet she had been interrupted by Kili, who had risen and stood before her and with a mock-solemn tone he'd asked: "Would great courage sway you, numerous tales about fantastical battles which would be impossibly to envision, to imagine? Or perhaps it would be a man with great prowess and skills with weapons? Or perhaps it is the greatest and most beautiful gifts that you desire?"

She chuckled affectionately and patted Kili's cheek, as he knelt before her in mock-reverence. For a moment she looked down at his expectant nephew and Thorin doubted that she would truly answer his question, especially after her discomfort of discussing any matter of her previous courting incidences.

Thorin was just about to avert his eyes when suddenly she said in a low voice: "I wouldn't ask much." He looked up at her and closely scrutinized her as she answered: "Great courage, skills with a weapon these things do not sway me. Of course, I shall admire him if he was honourable and loyal and if he had a good heart. But I'd never wish for anything. No goods, no demonstrations of affection. I want nothing. Nothing but knowing that he loved me too. His heart in exchange for mine."

He studied her and the way her eyes had become dreamy and those pouty lips had contorted into a small and wistful smile. How they had parted slightly in a silent sigh.

His heart exploded in his chest.

He rose wordlessly in response to her declaration. Undeterred by the sensation of Balin and Dwalin's questioning gaze on his back, he turned on his heel and proceeded to distance himself from the camp and lay down to rest, effectively dismissing the assembly. He was shrouded by silence after every member of his company had gone to rest.

As he woke his company the next morning while the air around them was still heavy and dense with the twilight. He found her lying on the ground on her side, her features softened by sleep. And Kili was lying closely to her, more than was courteous and appropriate and he had spread his coat over them both.

Thorin's hands had turned into fists and he'd looked away in distaste before leaving. He tried to tell himself that his chagrin was due to the distraction she provided for his nephews. That she was taking their focus of the quest. But the entire he could not stop thinking how it would have been like if he had been lying beside her.

* * *

She was walking beside him. He had remarked that while his pace was heavy and purposeful almost as if the constant responsibility and guilt he felt weighed down his feet and made itself visible in his stride, hers was lighter and she had slight spring to every step she took. Almost as if she was walking on clouds.

He had been surprised earlier today during their march when he had looked up and suddenly she had appeared at his side. He had been walking at the end of the company, seeking solitude especially today after he had awakened from a dream, a memory, a nightmare where he'd recalled the first time he'd realised that his grandfather had been seized by the gold sickness. It had been a normal day a few years before Smaug had come from the east and taken the mountain. He'd followed his daily, established routine when he'd decided to seek an audience with his grandfather to discuss the preparation for the arrival of the steward of Gondor that was scheduled in few months' time. He'd asked one of the royal guards where Thror had been when he'd found his grandfather's study and the throne room vacant and he'd been led to the largest treasure chamber in Erebor. When he had been about to enter and call out to his grandfather, he'd been met with a sight that had stopped him in his tracks.

He had hid in the shadows and observed his grandfather as he aimlessly wandered in circles amongst the mountains of gold with a crazed look in his eyes. And he'd realised that his grandfather had been seized by a sickness of the mind. It had not been instantaneous. Thorin had had many years to ponder on his grandfather's descent into madness which was consequently responsible for his exile. He supposed that the process Thror had been under during his sickness had been gradual, yet Thorin had been so in awe of the man that he'd failed and been unwilling to recognize any fault in his idol.

Today he'd stayed at the back of the company, rather than leading them at the front because he had wanted to seek his solitude, because he had been unwilling to converse with Gandalf or even Balin. He had wanted to remain alone by himself. He had been startled when she had seemingly willingly fallen back and joined him. Undeterred by his blatant astonishment at her decision, she had walked beside him in quietude.

At first he had been annoyed. Chagrined that she had not recognized his need for solitude, that she had not realised his wish to remain alone. He had been annoyed at first because he had thought that she would talk incessantly. That she would converse with him and try to start conversations to fill the silence between them. He feared that she would talk continuously like she did with her cousin and with his nephews. Yet she had surprised him when she had grasped his preference for silence. When she had simply contented herself with their solemn silence. And he had found that her presence had not aggravated him. That her company when he was in such turmoil over his turmoil was not bothersome and vexatious like he had expected, but rather- warm, comforting.

He had been surprised that she had joined him, that she had chosen to keep his company rather than Bilbo's or his nephews', the latter he could see periodically glancing back towards them. He'd been surprised when she'd joined him, because he had expected her to enjoy the company of any dwarf, any member of his company more than his. He was most assured that she found him a vexatious man, who was embittered and rancorous, two grudging sensations that her gentle nature could not understand. And he too should have found her an inconsequential creature who was proving to be more trouble than she would ultimately be able to solve. He had expected her to be a young, foolish, naive girl from the Shire who knew nothing of the world beyond her hobbit hole.

But he had found her to be everything but his expectations of her. What he could have easily construed as naivety, he now saw as innocence. It had been her who had saved them from the trolls, while him and the rest of the company, battle-hardened fellows, had laid helplessly bound in the sacks. And then she had called out and claimed that the dwarves were infected with parasites and they had been saved. He had not found her to be a help and insouciant maid, but rather she was fiery and brave and... remarkable.

He observed her from the corner of his eyes and saw her content smile on her lips- on those lips that he could not admit to himself that he wanted. A bright red curl had escaped from her braid and cascaded down her long, slim neck, so that it rested on her creamy slim shoulder, just above her collarbone. He shook his head as he once more found himself absorbed by his scrutiny of her.

He looked up at the sky and narrowed his eyes to see that the sun was at its highest point in the clear blue sky and seeing a conveniently placed clearing before them, he called out over his company and told everyone that they would rest for lunch. His announcement was met with a few sighs of relief. As soon as they had arrived in the clearing, they let themselves down and awaited Bombur to cook their lunch.

Thorin stood indecisively at the edge of the clearing even long after his company had settled into the clearing and were reclining after a long morning's march. He stood quietly at the edge of the clearing and within him a great conflict raged. She had sat herself down on the log to his right and was fixedly looking into her bag and sorting through her belongings, completely oblivious to his internal struggle. For a second he had thought yearningly to sit himself down beside her and continue their company. Yet he knew that that would be met with a certain degree of disapproval from Dwalin, who still seemed wary of the girl and distrusted her. It would show a certain weakness on his part if he sat beside her show that he cared more than he ever admit, yet he could not suppress the longing that filled him when he thought about sitting beside her. And eventually almost drunk and unable to orchestrate a rational and sensible thought, he quickly stepped toward her and let himself down beside her.

He felt the heat of her blue eyes, as they lay upon his form and studied him intently. He tried to keep his gaze straight. He was obstinate to not allow any encouragement for her to question his presence, he would not allow himself to look at her. He tried not to look at her, but she was like the sun. Especially when she looked away from him and she smiled so brightly that for a second he thought she rivalled it in its splendour. She was the sun and he saw her even without looking.

Keeping his gaze fixed on nothing, on everything but her, he wondered why she was sitting beside him. Thorin was not oblivious he had grasped her intentions, her reasons for sitting on a log at the edge of the clearing that was a little distanced from the rest of the company. She had wanted to keep his company during lunch. Yet he wondered why. Why she was close to him and seemed so intent to keep his company when only a few nights ago he'd overheard her conversation with Master Baggins. He'd sent her to fetch fresh water from the stream nearby and he'd seen the hobbit leaving the clearing to join his cousin and he'd disregarded them. Yet time had passed and the two hobbits had not returned with the water and Thorin had grown impatient. So he had gone after them to the stream and he'd arrived there to see Laurel and Master Baggins sitting at the edge of the stream with their feet in the water, indulging in conversation. They'd had their backs to him and he'd not approached, so they hadn't taken note of his arrival. And he'd overheard Master Baggins complaining about their leader's gruffness and rancorous demeanour.

He'd felt indignation, not entirely at Master Baggins' words, but rather at the pang of hurt he'd felt when she'd not contradicted her cousin's words and had with an indifferent demeanour listened to her cousin's rant. He supposed that he shouldn't have been surprised or even taken aback and affected by his discovery of her dislike of him. She'd never been more than polite with him and he figured that any kind gesture she showed him was only due to her upbringing and having taught to show gentility to everyone. She'd never been more than polite towards him and while she did recognize his station, she had not seemed as in awe of him being a king as others may have been and were. Him being a king had not deterred her to voice her opinion whenever she'd thought Thorin to be erroneous. The night at Bag End when she'd called out due to his mocking of the hobbit. When he'd told her to stay away from his nephews and stop being a distraction and she had spat that she only offered them her friendship. The numerous times when she'd shaken her head in disapproval when he'd discipline his nephews and they would radiate their disappointment at their uncle's dissatisfaction with them. He failed to understand why she would seek the company of an individual which both she and the hobbit found unendurable due to his cold and angry demeanour.

His curiosity eventually overwhelmed him and he murmured gruffly: "Would you not rather keep the company of your cousin or my nephews?" The silence, which had been momentarily broken by his question, once more returned and Thorin began feeling anxious for her response, yet he received none and he wondered if he had perhaps stated his question so lowly that she had not grasped it. Despite his resolve to not look at her, he raised his eyes to see her studying with a silent smile. Seeing that his attention was on her, she shook her head and whispered almost as if she was telling him a secret: "No, I am where I long to be."

Thorin looked down as he felt infuriating hope rise in his chest and in an attempt to dispel this sensation which was entirely unwanted despite the comfort it provided, he spat: "Why would you want to spend your time in the presence of an individual who is so bitter and cantankerous all the time?" He phrased his question using the words the hobbit had used while complaining about him, using the words that she had not contradicted. Her eyes widened momentarily in response to her question and he'd expected her to look embarrassed or taken aback that he'd witnessed her private conversation. He'd even expected her to feel slight chagrin that he'd intruded on her private moment with her best friend. Yet she only cocked her head to the side and looked inquisitively.

He looked away quickly, feeling that her eyes could penetrate his several barriers and look into his bare soul. He looked away in fear that she would something, that she would anything. That she would see something that was unknown to him, something that he was unwilling to divulge. So he looked away. He'd expected all types of reactions from her, yet he'd never thought he'd hear her chuckling and outraged, with his nostrils flaring, he looked up to see her hidden mirth in the way her eyes sparkled and the wrinkles around her pouty lips from where she struggled to prevent them forming into an amused smile. Sensing his anger, she quickly sobered and in a low voice that was still tinged with hidden laughter said: "Forgive me, it's just that you appear so invulnerable at times. It surprises me to find that mine and Bilbo's conversation has truly offended you." He looked at her angrily and with a caustic voice, he stated: "Do not flatter yourself, girl. I am not offended, you are nothing to me."

Her face fell and unconcealed hurt spread over her features and he cursed himself for the pang he'd felt in his chest in response to her sadness at his words. He made to rise quickly before he said or did something in response to her sunken face. Before he did something that he would regret later. But he was stopped in his tracks by a small hand which was a soft as cloud holding onto his calloused ones. Her grasp was firm and decided, yet also delicate and cautious like she was a child that held onto their parent's hand in a bid for them to protect her. His finger twitched once, twice, thrice in a silent, unconscious promise.

He knew it was the first time their hands had met though she was perfectly unconscious of the fact.

He felt a burning up his arm originating from where she touched and he had to swallow to compose himself, to control his speeding heart. He tried to compose himself before he looked back to see her pleading face and when his stormy eyes met her shining ones, she whispered: "No, don't... Please don't leave." His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and he'd lost any ability to make a rational decision. He forgot that he wasn't meant to care for this girl, he forgot everything. He was powerless to not sit down beside her.

When he'd settled on the log, she withdrew her hand and looked away and he had to resist the urge to grasp her tiny palm once more, in a desperate attempt to keep her. He could see the shame in her face and heard her state: "Just because Bilbo is my friend, doesn't mean that we share the same opinion of everything." He furrowed his brows intrigued by her words. "You are angry and embittered, I knew it from the second I saw you Thorin." She looked up at him and she was so vulnerable and real that Thorin was almost dizzy with his desire for her: "But you are honourablies and you are..." She looked down as she thought about her words before she stated with complete conviction: "You are a good leader. You do not demand respect. I am abided to feel loyalty to you, because that is the person you are, someone who inspires loyalty."

He was looking at her startled and incredulous as she expressed her regard towards him. He'd always thought that she barely endured him, yet here she was: This girl who confused him greatly, this girl who he pondered with intrigue, this girl who surprised him, this girl who had awakened something within him that he'd thought inexistant. "You have suffered Thorin, but don't let it dictate the rest of your life. It shall only make you suffer more." he heard her whisper to him and her lips were turned down at the corners. He had unconsciously moved closer to her during her words and he was almost in a drunken stupor due to the tenderness he felt at the mere sight of her sweet face. He was close to her. So close that he could sense her gentle scent that was flowery and innocent yet so maddeningly sensual that he'd had resist the urge to howl at the moon like a starved wolf. He was close to her, to those satiny lips that bloomed like an exotic blossom on her face. They were the lips of a temptress, of a siren and stood at odds with her innocent demeanour. Those were the lips that would lead even the strongest and most most virtuous of man to perdition.

He devoured her with his eyes and drank in the sight of her. He swallowed her whole. It beated through his bloodstream. But it was not enough for him. He longed to seize her pouty, greedy lips. To trail his lips feverishly down her elegant throat and mouth just one word: _Mine_. He wanted to beg her to give him an opportunity to live. To see any limits set as arbitrary.

He was broken out of his haze by Fili's arrival. His eldest nephew sat down beside the girl and smiled at her and he saw him look at Laurel with affection blindingly clear on his face. He looked away in distaste questioning the power of this girl, how she was able to invoke something like this in every single one of them. Why it almost seemed a crime not to love her. He saw Fili lay an affectionate arm around her delicate shoulders and he had to resist the urge to growl at his nephew. To tell him that the girl was his and that she belonged to him and he felt a biting anger course through him at his nephew's intentions to take her from him. And he longed to tie her to him, not for a few decades, not for a century. He wanted to tie her to him forever. Oh, how he thought of her. She was purely good- infinitely good. He had never thought humanity to be so rich and he wanted her to belong to him.

But he couldn't, he thought with defeat. Not when he saw Fili, his youngest nephew looking at him with such a pleading face and he composed himself. Not when he saw Fili looking at him and silently asking him to leave. And while he was at first unwilling, he did surrender. He was too stubborn and continued to deny himself.

* * *

He watched her over the camp-fire. She was listening to Dori explain medicinal herbs with fascination clearly written over her features and all the while affection and guilt turmoiled within him as he studied her.

Affection. The warm feeling which caused him such self-deprecation but which only seemed to strengthen every day that passed and was not deterred by his aversion to recognizing the sensations she awoke within him. The same comforting, enraging feeling of tenderness whenever he laid eyes upon her, whenever his mind turned to her, whenever he heard her peal of bell-like laughter being carried towards him by the wind. Affection, the feeling which was so prominent within him that it almost threatened to swallow him whole.

And Guilt, that was another feeling that was prominent within him and which gnawed at him incessantly. He felt intense guilt that he wanted her, that he thought about claiming those lips until they were read and swollen and _his. _He felt intense guilt at his need for her. At wanting to run his hands reverently over her figure at wanting to explore every inch of her creamy skin. He felt guilt that he wanted her despite her ancestry. At times he would think with bitter amusement about the cruelty of fate. That fate would orchestrate the only woman he had ever wanted in his life to be of the race he so despised. He should have hated her. He should have hated her for her ancestry, for the fact that she was a part of Thandruil's race, that she was part of the race which had betrayed him and his grandfather. He should've deemed her as deceptive, vainglorious and despicable as all elves he had previously encountered. He should have expulsed her as soon as he had discovered her ancestry. He should have disregarded her insistence to go on with his company. He should have hated her. Hated her for her deception. Hated her for her mother being an elf. He should have hated her the same way he had despised all elves that had crossed his path. And he shouldn't have wanted her. He shouldn't have continued to want her. He shouldn't have continued to need her. By his soul, he could neither eat, drink, nor sleep, or what is still worse want anything in the world but her. And she was an elf.

He wondered why he even thought about her in such a manner. He'd thought that any foolish affection for her would have been laid down after his discovery of her origins. That as soon as he'd discovered that she was not as virtuous and beatific as the image he'd reverently held of her, he'd let go of his blind regard. Yet he had been wrong. He'd grown angry with her that her origins only seemed to make her more unattainable to him. He'd resented her so greatly for once more dancing out of his reach, for making it more impossible that any day he could call her his. He'd resented her that she'd made herself more elusive than she already was when she'd muster him with impassiveness. He said to himself that he did not like her. And he tried to compensate himself for the mortified feeling that while he looked at her with a growing admiration he could not suppress, she looked upon every time with cold and proud indifference taking him as a rough fellow without any refinement and grace.

Even if he had been able or willing to disregard his prejudice, his ingrained acrimony towards elves. Even if he had wanted to forget the indoctrinated animosity he felt towards elves, his future with her would still seem bleak and without fortune. His people would never accept an elf. He was their king, their leader, their figure of authority. His people looked towards him whenever decisions had to be made and actions had to be undertaken. His people looked up to him. They would never accept her. She had gained the regard of several members of his company by her continued displays of courage and fealty. Yet he recalled their mistreatment of her after they had discovered her ancestry in Rivendell. The dwarves of Erebor were stubborn and obstinate, they would never accept her. They hated elves, especially after their witnessing of Thranduil's reluctance to help them. In their minds, the elves were as responsible for their demise and misery as the fire drake who had invaded Erebor. They would never accept her, they would hate her even if she would prove herself more than what they thought of her. She would never be accepted and were she to become his queen he could possibly face a revolt from his people. The dwarves were a highly withdrawn and proud race, he knew that his people would never accept an elf as their queen. They would find great offence in that and he knew what extreme measures dwarves would take to defend their pride.

And he wouldn't let her suffer through this. He'd seen her misery when she'd experienced the mistreatment of his company, he'd seen and sensed her sadness. Yet she had recovered their good will gradually, yet he could not dare hope that this phenomenon would repeat itself with the dwarves of Erebor. His people were jaded and bitter- just like him- they were not as jovial as Bofur and kind-hearted as Bombur, or even as fatherly as Dori. He wouldn't allow her to once more suffer through the unjust mistreatment she had faced. He would let her go at the end of the quest. He would let her go, even if his fondness for her was so great and at times desperate in its spirit that the mere thought of his approaching separation to her broke his heart. That he felt that it would kill him to let her go. He couldn't expose her to the wrath of his people. She wouldn't survive in the darkness of Erebor. She was like a flower- she was a flower. She needed sunlight and warmth and no flower would ever bloom in his mountain where only hard rocks and precious gems resided. Once these held unspeakable appeal to him, but they were all extinguished from his mind when he looked up at her and momentarily indulged in watching her. He knew his time with her was insufficient, so short so he allowed himself the indulgence of watching her.

He studied the youth and innocence of her features and he pursed his lips in distaste as his guilt increased. He was painfully aware of her youth, of the fact that he was so much older than her. His desire for her was almost perverse, she was decades younger than him. When he had lost Erebor and already was an adult who had experienced the world and had been betrothed to a princess, she had only been born. He did not understand how he could have wanted one as young as her and he felt all-consuming guilt as he thought about his desire for her. She was barely older than Kili, his nephew. He would destroy her, her bright fiery spirit. He would extinguish that light within her with his cold and bitter nature and he would destroy her innocence and her bright hope with his wariness of the world. He would destroy her. He did not understand why the only woman he had ever desired was much younger than him. It would taint her to be loved by him. But she could not avoid it and he, if he could, would not cleanse her from it. He had never wanted a woman as such before in his life: his life had been too busy and his thoughts absorbed with other things. Yet now he wanted and he would want. But she did not need to fear too much expression on his part. Because he was loath to admit to himself the power she held over him. Because he dared not hope that. He had never been faint-hearted before but he dared not hope that such a creature could ever care for one as him. That such a young, lively woman could ever want an old man like him with grey in his beard and who was suspicious and wary of everything. He dared not hope, especially when she looked upon him with cold indifference.

She would return to the Shire to her hobbit hole where she belonged. Where she wanted to be. He'd overheard Master Baggins' angered words to Bofur when he'd discussed the adversions his cousin had encountered on the quest. _'Where she had suffered so much' _That was the way in which this period of the quest- to him so unspeakably precious, down to its very bitterness, which was worth all the rest of life's sweetness- would be remembered. She would return to Bag End, she would return with her cousin whom she had declared to love more than anything else in this world. Masochistically, he would observe her interactions with Master Baggins needing to see if her affection, if her devotion was indeed so expansive and true. And each time he would lash himself into an agony of fierce jealousy. He thought of that look, that attitude.

He would have laid his life at her feet for such tender glances, such fond detention!

Fate had been indeed cruel to him. Had been cruel to the line of Durin it seemed. His nephews loved her. And that realisation he had come to only last night, caused his guilt to become even more overwhelming than it already was. He hadn't want to realise it. He hadn't wanted to recognize the increasingly longing nature of their lingering looks and touches. He hadn't wanted to realise that their affection for the girl had begun to run deeper and truer than any of their previous dalliances, because he had been blissful in his ignorance. He had not wanted to realize that his nephews loved Laurel, yet after last night he could no longer it.

It was a little after he had announced that they would set up camp for the night and he had been busy unsaddling his horse. He'd been startled when he'd heard the raucous clatter of dishes falling to the ground closely followed by Fili's outraged voice. He'd looked up to find her storming off angrily, her red cheeks revealing her embarrassment, while both Fili and Kili had argued angrily over their mutual affections for the girl. And he had later found out that Kili had kissed Laurel expressing his feelings for her and Fili had arrived in time to witness it. His nephews had not spoken or even looked at one another for the rest of the evening after their heated discussion had simmered down.

His nephews were the last family he had left. Without them he had no one. He'd tutored them, especially Fili, and showed them the skills and attributes that were expected from them as part of the royal family. He'd taught Fili how ton handle his sword when he hadn't even been old and strong enough to lift a small broadsword. He'd shown taught Kili to hold a bow and shoot his first arrow. He loved his nephews despite his constant chagrin at them due to their behaviour that in his opinion was not appropriate for princes. And he prided himself in the fact that they seemed to hold a respect for him to equalled the one he'd held for Thror. He was the patriarchal figure in their life and had always been since their father had passed away when Kili had been but a decade old.

He couldn't hurt his nephews by also wanting Laurel. He couldn't do that to them, he wouldn't hurt them in this manner. Even when at times he felt overcome by his adoration of her.

* * *

She had approached him. In the obscurity of night she had laid down beside him and eliminated the great rift between them by laying so closely to him that he could feel the warmth oozing from her form. She had eliminated the disparity which had formed between them in the rational and judgemental light of day by laying her warm hand atop of his. She had approached him the way she always did. Try as he might he couldn't get over his obstinacy, he couldn't overcome his prejudice and his aversion to her ancestry. His pride and his beliefs prevented him from admitting and realising that he was overcome by her. So it was her who always approached him.

He could recall several instances where his stubbornness had dictated the interaction between them. He recalled the several incidences when he would feel her seeking out his gaze and he would avoid and resist the warmth of her gaze as he stood beside Dwalin and he would see his friend shake his head in disapproval over his obvious affection to the girl, whom Dwalin referred derivatively to as 'the elf'. He recalled every morning when he'd wake beside her and her features would be illuminated by the early grey twilight and he would indulge in studying her sweet face that was softened and pacified by sleep and looking at her pure white face, the sense of what she was to him would come to him so keenly that he would resist the urge to speak out in his pain: "Oh, Laurel- my Laurel! No one can tell what you are to me." Then he would rise as soon as he heard any of other member of his company awaken, so that they wouldn't see him with her. He recalled every instance when she'd look up at him lovingly with a small smile and her face open with trust and vulnerability, he recalled every time she'd wake him with her small fingers trailing over his arms and he would wake to her loving smile- those instances when he had been compelled, when he had been so close to say three words to her, but was unable to, too proud to.

Or each time when he grabbed her by the forearm whenever she was alone and he drug her off and concealed by the shadows, he would crash his lips onto the satin of hers and lose himself within her. When he would punishingly claim every inch of her to himself, when he'd feel his heart explode as she trembled against his chest, when he allowed his hands to roam over her delicate body with frenzied and feverish, trembling reverence. When he drank her, when he allowed himself to be consumed by her, whenever he allowed himself the indulgence to pour all his passionate desperation over her like a deluge and he would have to violently wrench himself off her. He would leave her panting with glazed eyes and swollen lips and he would turn from her and leave her ashamed and guilty.

And later, in the dead of night, she would approach and in the blissful dusk he would forget all his prejudices and all his hind thoughts. And he would hold her in feverish awe and press himself tightly against her, their limbs overlapping almost as if they wished to become one. He would inhale her sweet scent and only she would exist, his sense would be tuned to only her and he would forget anything existed beside her. And for a few, reverent moments he would allow himself the pleasure of being in her arms, the pleasure of being in paradise.

He heard her soft breathing and he looked down at her sweet face as he felt her arms slacken in sleep. In response he only tightened his as he felt his renewed desperation and frenzy rise within him. He was painfully aware that every second, every moment with her was stolen. That their time together would be so brief. He knew as he spent these blissful hours beside her that their embraces were numbered. He knew it in these mere hours that he clung to her in the fevered darkness on the forest floor that one would he would have to live without that beloved face, that memories were soon to become his life's oasis. He didn't wish to waste any time with her, he wished to cling to the insufficient bliss of fleetingly having her. She was engraved in him forever, were he too die tomorrow or meander meaninglessly through the eons of time, as long as he carried on existing it would be so.

He would loose her soon. They had responsibilities. He would be king to his people who would never accept her at his side and she would remain by her cousin's side compelled by a promise that she had given to him and to her aunt. And he knew her loyalty and that the loyalty she owed to Bilbo was greater than the loyalty she held for him. He passed a shaking hand over her cheek and woke her gingerly. Her long, thick lashes fluttered like butterflies wings against her soft skin and she soon revealed her blue eyes that were drowsy with sleep and she looked up at him with slight disorientation. Yet as she saw the distress that he no doubt revealed in his eyes, she immediately became lucid. Worriedly, she passed a tender hand over his cheek and asked him: "Thorin what is it?" He leaned into her touch, revelling in her caress, before leaning his forehead against hers. He exhaled shakily and needing to listen to her dulcet voice, needing to assure himself of her presence, he whispered: "Tell me a story." She looked up at him with her brows furrowed and he felt her tighten her arms around him and he brought himself closer to her. "Thorin..." he heard her state lowly, confusedly and he shook his head interrupting her before she could say anything: "Please."

For a few moments, he felt her studying him trying to figure out the reason for his distress and his desperation in these late hours of the night where everything but them failed to exist. For a few moments she was silent, but then her low voice broke the silence as she whispered to him: "There once was a king and his kingdom was known far and wide for there was none could equal its splendour and fortune and there was no leader as honourable and valiant as the king." She smiled up at him and held his gaze, as she continued: "But there was a curse over the kingdom, which had been laid upon it in ancient times by a powerful menace. And he had made it so that the sun would always shine, all days, all hours, all year and everything around them was flawless. They didn't know the blessing of the rain they missed for how could anyone miss anything that they knew not of. And the king spent years in this state of constant perfection surrounded by his loyal people, by his gold and by his sun." Thorin looked down affected by her words and feeling a recognition in the tale she relayed to him. "The people were blissful, but they always knew something was missing and there was a constant melancholy which hung heavy over the kingdom. And then one day a sorceress arrived in the kingdom. And at first the people were all wary of her, especially the king who distrusted her and questioned her intentions. They did not allow her to enter the kingdom and the king eyed her with unveiled distrust, yet despite the animosity the sorceresses faced she stayed. She was from another planet, she had come down from the stars. And she stayed because she had watched the kingdom and moved by her compassion over their curse of perfection, she had come to them and persevered. Because she loved the kingdom, she loved the people... and she loved the king." He looked up at her with wide-eyes and he felt his heart start to pound in his chest and it was so intense a rhythm that he felt his chest could barely contain it. "Eventually they laid down their mistrust towards her and she entered the kingdom and with her she brought rain. And finally they all realised what they had been missing. Rain, thunder, abundance, life. Things that the king had never thought he could behold."

She laid her head down on his chest breaking their gaze and he lay his cheek on the crown of her head. "What happened later? What is the ending?" He startled as she looked up at him with watery eyes and whispered: "After having brought the rain, the sorceress had to return home, she had to go back to the stars." He pursed his lips in grudging dissatisfaction and asked her: "Would the sorceress truly leave after having made all love her... after having made the king love her?" Her lips twisted in sadness and she lowered her head and shook her head, before she sobbed out: "She must, she promised." "What if the king begged her to stay? What if he vowed to give her everything she desired if she only promised him that she would never ever leave? What if he begged her to stay with him, at his side? What if he begged her to make his life bearable." He asked her despairingly and with growing determination for her. He felt her shake her head once more and he strongly suppressed his sense of defeat at her determination to leave him, as she stated: "She can't. She has to return home." He lowered his face to hers and with a frenzied whisper he asked her: "What would happen if the king asked her to take him with her? What if he told her that without her nothing mattered to him, that he only wanted her for the rest of his life?" Her eyes snapped to him and she looked at him incredulously for a few seconds, yet she had been unable to hide the instinctive delight that had flashed in her eyes, but she soon sobered and shook her head and with a sense of alarm she stated: "No, Thorin. You already resent me enough. You can't, you have to stay."

In defeat he looked down and buried his head in the crook of her neck, desperate for her. He felt her tender caress of his head and he heard her whispering beatifically: "When it is time. You'll find me again. You'll come to the stars and find me in heave and there we can be true."

He looked up at her and held her watery gaze and he realised.

Not all men fell in love. He didn't. Some men got lost and he was and had been lost to her completely ever since that first night in the Shire.

He lowered his lips to hers.


End file.
